


save a horse, ride a cowboy

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: bone and amber (silicone and carbon fibre) [2]
Category: True Detective, Westworld (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Westworld, Anal Sex, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, Light Bondage, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Romance, this is a Very Serious Fic i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 04:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: When Marty woke up, there was a mouth against his neck, warm breaths clouding his skin.





	save a horse, ride a cowboy

When Marty woke up, there was a mouth against his neck, warm breaths clouding his skin. The heated air tickled him, made him shiver, but not as much as the body pressed up against his back, the arms draped across his chest. It was like Rust needed the closeness just to feel alive.

Marty did too.

He rolled onto his side, shifting and shuffling, Rust’s hands hanging limply around his stomach as he inched closer. His lips touched searchingly against Rust’s cheek, and then he felt a hitched breath against his face. Rust mumbled something incoherent, humming a quiet question. His voice purred deep at the base of his throat, vibrating against Marty, and his closeness sent Marty into a heated frenzy. He closed his eyes tight. Tried to _understand_ the reality of what he was experiencing. Being curled into the heat of the man he’d always wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

No desert now. No warm, stifling skies. No cowboy hats and rehearsed, familiar speeches about _missions out west_ and _the outcast you oughtn’t spend a moment entertainin’._ Rust was here, with him, and what that meant…

…well. Marty didn’t quite know what that meant in the grand, universal scheme of things, the one where Rust wasn't  _technically_ a human being. But he didn't care about that. All he knew was that the dishes from last night were washed and drying in the dishrack, and that Rust’s hair was soft against his forehead, the tip of Rust’s nose chilled by the night air, touching against Marty’s skin. He could feel the beginnings of the sunrise, tendrils of heat creeping into the room; he knew that condensation was dripping down the glass of his windows, just as it had every morning that he had lived in this apartment.

This was domestic, calm, and cosy. This was everything he had ever wanted.

“Mornin’.”

Marty exhaled softly, felt Rust move against him minutely. The tiniest movements were so colossal, when they were this close. So intimate.

Marty felt Rust kiss the corner of his mouth.

“…Mornin’,” he whispered in reply.

Rust’s fingers brushed a gentle trail up Marty’s face. A hesitant, apprehensive gesture. Testing the waters. Marty let his eyes flicker open only when the silence had gone on too long, the stillness had gotten too heavy to stand. He was answered by Rust’s hooded blue eyes, weighed down with a desire that made Marty’s body itch, suddenly so conscious of where he lay on his back. His lips parted with a smile that was equal parts hysteria and exhilaration.

“What is it?”

Marty huffed out a laugh, reached up to rub his eyes. “Doesn’t feel real. All I ever wanted was to be with you, and now…”

Rust let out a quiet chuckle, a breathy exhale that was followed by arms tightening around Marty, pulling him close. Their chests bumped, fabric and skin sliding together as if they were meant to fit like this. Rust kissed him, and their breaths were tinged by morning staleness, but Marty didn’t mind. The warmth was too spectacular. This slick touch of lips was all he’d ever need.

“Does this,” he asked against Rust’s mouth, “Does this feel real to you?”

Rust captured his face between his palms, his hand smoother and warmer than Marty had initially expected– for a man so deeply rooted in the desert wilderness, where the sun had dried out the wells and herds had shrivelled down to skeletons, he was so gentle. So tender.

“Yeah,” Rust answered him, fingers moving along Marty’s jawline. A little pressure, a thumb against the right vein, and Marty would be a goner. He liked knowing that Rust could do that to him. Liked the power that ran through Rust’s veins like liquid dominance.

His breath hitched when Rust’s teeth ran over his bottom lip. The barest suggestion of a bite, and Marty was practically trembling.

“You scared me, yesterday.” Marty whispered. “When you…”

“…glitched?”

Marty swallowed hard, nestled his forehead against the curve of Rust’s bare neck, his apology unspeakably genuine. He felt Rust hold him; an implicit, unspoken acceptance, saying, _it's okay, I'm frightened too_. Rust smoothed a hand down Marty’s side, palm gliding down unscarred, coffee-coloured skin.

“Strange sensation. Knowin’ I’m a machine, but feelin’ that I’m a man.”

Marty felt the hardness of a cock against his thigh, and he shifted, drawing up his leg just to hear Rust exhale the beginnings of a moan.

“You’re as much of a man as I am,” he replied, and it was as much of a challenge as it was the truth.

Marty tilted up his chin, finding Rust’s mouth with his eyes closed, lips meeting easily, like he knew the pattern of their bodies already. Innate. Intrinsic. He arched upwards, made his intentions clear, and Rust answered him in kind. He could taste the ghost of that old place, where brandy was sloshed over the sides of thick-rimmed glasses, and cards were shuffled by dirty hands, gold coins thrown onto alcohol-weathered wood in the name of establishing a bargain. Beneath that lingered the cold reality of plastic and synthetic flesh, but that was fading already, into irrelevance and convenient amnesia. They both wanted to forget. Marty moved against Rust, offered himself as a method of accomplishing such obliviousness. Rust’s arm moved down to grip him, encircle Marty’s waist, lift him up off the bed like a doll. Marty felt so light in his embrace. His legs parted without conscious intent, inviting the hand that came wandering.

“Being meanin’ to ask,” Marty breathed, “seein’ as you were programmed to want me before, are you sure that you still-”

“Don’t be fuckin’ moron. Goddamn.” Rust’s wrist twisted, bones curving and moving to a purposeful angle, and Marty’s head tipped back against the pillow. Rust growled, deep and hungry, and his other hand moved to grab a handful of Marty’s ass. “ _Goddamn.”_

“Ah, fuck,”

“How can you even _ask me that-”_

“Shit, I was just wonderin’, okay,” Marty’s mouth fell open wide, his face tight with desperation. “Fuck. Such a handsy son of a bitch, Rust.”

“You complainin’, huh? Want me to stop?” Rust ground against him like an animal, all lithe intent and determination, feline desire alive in the lines of his body and the shape of his hips. “Tellin’ me you don’t want this?”

“Like I’m gonna let _you_ take charge again, mother _fucker,” Marty_ hissed out a curse. He got his knees under Rust, pushed himself up and flipped them over. He folded his legs on either side of Rust’s ribs, yanking off his singlet and watching the lights go on in Rust’s eyes like he wanted to fuck Marty until they both couldn’t walk anymore. He pulled off Rust’s shit too, hindered by buttons and straps, tearing at his undershirt until Rust’s brown body was finally revealed to him. He almost went still, stunned into a lapse by the scars that marred and butchered Rust’s chest, but he managed to keep his eyes from opening too wide. It was different, seeing Rust like this. This was the _real world._ Rust was _real,_ and he had to _live_ with what they had done to him.

He ducked down his head, muttering, “We need to get you some proper fuckin’ clothes,” just to hear Rust scoff and grumble. Just to break that heavy train of thought.

But, as his lips closed around the ridge of a tattoo that had been seared into the meat of Rust’s chest, he felt Rust’s fingers tugging at his waistband. He batted Rust’s hands away. He wanted to take his time.

“Slow the _fuck_ down-”

Rust growled, the sound too desperate to be convincing. “ _Make_ me.”

Marty cursed under his breath. He took Rust’s wrists in hand, yanked them above his head, twisted his singlet around Rust’s arms to bind them in place. Rust blinked up at him in shock, and the air between them solidified into a vibrating stillness, sparking with some kind of carnal electricity.

“Wanna enjoy this,” Marty whispered, “Wanna enjoy _you.”_

Rust slid his tongue between his lips, eyelids quivering. Marty kissed him hard, hands moving down Rust’s arms, fingers exploring the curves and slopes of muscles, the inky wings of a skeletal bird that danced down Rust’s body. He arched downwards, a slow grind, just to feel Rust’s hips jerk upwards against him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Rust moaned.

“You like that?” Marty followed the motion of his hips with a drag of his palm, and Rust lurched, a jolt shuddering through his body. His white cotton briefs were damp, tight and straining, and Marty grinned against Rust’s neck. “You like it, huh?”

“Come on, come _on,”_

“Wait, baby. Wait for it.”

Rust huffed out a feverish laugh. “Ain’t nobody ever called me _that_ before.”

Marty kissed his way down Rust’s body, lips coming to rest against the softly straining fabric of his waistband. He took his time. Rust whimpered and cursed, so solid and real under Marty’s hands that he could hardly believe Rust had once snaked through the world like a shadow, silent as a gentle breeze, emotions flitting across his face like poetry. Yet here he was, one of his legs draped over Marty’s shoulder, calf heavy against Marty’s shoulder blade, reduced to a universally-understood need. Marty tasted the damp salt of him, throat tight because this was all still so new, and Rust was the only man he’d ever touched like this.

Eventually, Marty reached over to the bedside table to seek out the lube, chest tightening with the knowledge of what this _meant_. Rust glanced up at him when he heard the click of the tube, and Marty could see the hint of confusion in his eyes, the perplexity that the tube was sleek and plastic and smooth, utterly unlike anything that would’ve come from his world. Marty rested his forehead against Rust’s hip, reached back with two fingers to prepare himself.

Rust exhaled brokenly. “Marty…”

“Wait,” Marty nearly begged him, his voice strained and weak, “please, just wait. We’ve got time now, Rust. We ain’t gotta rush no more.”

It didn’t take long. The fact that he got to ready himself at all was a luxury, and he wasn’t used to the quiet anticipation between them, the heavy breathing and the hiccupped half-words that forced their way out of Rust’s throat as Marty continued to use his mouth in clumsy, eager ways. He had felt the same confusion last night, when they had laid in bed together, hesitantly shifting closer, unsure about where they stood, bewildered by the idea that they could share a bed without needing to fuck every single second that they were awake. It felt good, to have enough time to finally relax. It felt _new._

But Marty needed more.

Before he was anywhere near ready, Marty straightened up, jaw aching and wrist throbbing, his naked ass smeared with the shine of lube. Rust panted, gazing upwards like Marty could do _anything_ and Rust would have no choice but to beg for more. His composure was utterly wrecked, his hands clenched tightly where they were bound above his head. Marty moved forward, straddling this beautiful man, hypnotised by his flawless sapphire eyes, dizzy with the knowledge that he had all the power in the world. This bed was their altar. Their place of worship. A mutual act of reverence.

He felt Rust’s chest move with a sharp breath, an inhalation bowing his rips and straining against Marty’s thighs. Marty reached down, lined Rust up where he needed, looked at Rust as if seeking permission.

“I’m so fuckin’ glad we met.” Rust breathed.

Marty smiled. “Me too.”

He felt tears gather in his eyes, unbidden and unexpected, and then he was sliding down onto Rust. They both went still, taut as a bowstring, trembling with the _feeling._

Stillness.

“Oh.” Marty whispered, sounding almost shocked, stunned into breathless incoherence.

“ _Shit…”_ Rust answered him.

Marty swayed his body forward, jerky and still inexperienced, and it was only then he realised he’d never done this before. This position, this feeling inside him- Rust had been his first man, his one and only, and they’d never done _this_ before. He let his head tip forward, mouth open, eyes half-closed, and moved his hips again. Rust stared back at him. They watched each other, for the longest while, until Marty was moving faster, finding some kind of rhythm in this fleshy chaos.

He bit his lip, saw Rust glance sharply at the movement, before that clever gaze moved down Marty’s body, hungry like Rust wanted to _devour_ every inch of him, keep him forever like this, extend this moment into eternity. Marty felt that this would never end. How could it? When it was _this good?_

He whimpered and moved faster, one hand on Rust’s sternum, planted there for leverage, a sweat-moistened tattoo against his palm.

“Does it,” Rust whispered, “Does it hurt?”

“You ain’t- _ah_ \- ever asked me that before.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah.” Marty nodded, eyes glassy, his body brimming with a heat he could hardly bear. He ground down against Rust, faster now, because it _did_ hurt, and the burn inside him was almost as good as the ache in his lower back, the strain in his thighs, the masochism of it all. “Yeah. It does. It does-”

“You love it,” Rust gasped.

Marty sunk his teeth deeper into his lip, closing his eyes, reaching up to muss his own hair as he moved his hips, _putting on a show,_ because he loved the way Rust was _looking at him-_

“Yeah, Rust. Yeah, _fuck.”_

 

***

 

 

When they were done, Rust held him, hands sliding free from the flimsy cotton restraints he could have easily escaped the entire time if he'd been so inclined. Marty lay against him, boneless and limp, and their harsh breaths eventually evened out, quieted into an easy slumber. The moisture on Marty cooled, became sticky, but he could feel the heaviness of sleep starting to cloud his judgement, so he pulled Rust close and decided he would shower later. _They_ would shower later.

“Never knew whether I’d see you again, when I was in that place. It was all… a flat circle, Marty. A loop. An endless cycle of violence and degradation, one that I accepted without complaint ‘cause I didn’t know anythin’ better. You were… the _only_ thing that changed. And I never knew… I was never sure whether you gave enough of a shit about me to keep comin’ back. I started to remember, I started to… _want_ you. I know they told me to use you, but I wanted- I wanted to _keep_ you, Marty. And I wanna keep you forever. I want you to be happy. I wanna make you happy, ‘cause that’s what makes _me_ happy.”

Rust waited for a reply, but Marty was fast asleep.

He smiled, kissed Marty’s forehead, and closed his eyes.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so i am obviously VERY bad at being on hiatus. i dedicate this story to the wonderful TD fandom, to the awesomeness of painkillers, and to my best friend (who is to blame for the title of this fic).


End file.
